But she whispered: "Go, Claw-of-the-Eagle, go quickly ere the sailors awake. Hasten back to old Wansutis that she may bind up thy wound, and to Powhatan and tell him that he must buy Pocahontas's freedom from the English by returning their men he holdeth prisoners."

While she was still speaking the young brave's mind was working rapidly. At first the respect he owed her as the daughter of the great werowance was uppermost and he thought he must needs do her bidding and leave her. Little by little, however, he began to think of her as a young maiden, strong and courageous, but not so strong as a man, who now stood in need of the help of a brave. He hated the English more than ever, and Pocahontas's promise to aid them seemed to him only a girlish foolishness. Let them all perish on their island or return across the sea whence they had come. Why should she go with them? Why should he let her go? Who knew what treatment she would receive away from her own people? If he should rescue her and bring her back to her father, would he not thus win great favor in the eyes of Powhatan, who would not refuse her to him as his squaw? If she would not come willingly, he would carry her off against her will for her good.

Rescue Pocahontas! And in addition—kill the hated white men! Had they not wounded him and carried her off? There were not many of them and they were all asleep. While he and Pocahontas had talked he had pulled himself out of the water and thrown his legs over the stern. Now he rose and whispered:

"Before I go I would know what their canoe is like. Be not afeared for me; there is no danger, only do not stir."

She wished to remonstrate with him, but he was already a few paces ahead of her, treading as lightly as if the deck were gravel that would roll about and betray him with its noise, and she did not dare call out to him. She saw him draw near to a sleeping sailor and stoop; but it was too dark for her to see that he had placed his hand over the man's mouth and with the knife in his other hand, had stabbed him to the heart.

The sailor's dying struggles were noiseless and when they were over Claw-of-the-Eagle moved softly on to the next.

There was something sinister to Pocahontas in the silence; she began to divine that it was not mere curiosity which was keeping Claw-of-the-Eagle, and yet she dared not go in search of him.

The second victim was despatched as easily as the first, and the third, though he awoke before the blow was struck, was unable to avert it. The young brave, whose lust for slaughter increased as he went on, felt about for Captain Argall. Already the dawn was coming, and he could distinguish the forms of the four other men. He bent over one of them; his hand, burning with the fever from his wound and excitement, touched the cheek of the man instead of the mouth. The sailor cried out instantaneously even before he was awake; and Claw-of-the-Eagle, realizing in a second that his game was up, slashed out with his knife at him in passing as he ran for the stern.

He could have leapt overboard more easily, but though he had failed to kill all his enemies, he meant to rescue Pocahontas. He dashed towards her, followed by the sailor. Argall and the two others of the crew, roused at the outcry, were at their heels. Claw-of-the-Eagle caught Pocahontas in his arms and before she knew what was happening, he had sprung with her into the river.

The sailor, who had been but slightly wounded by the young brave's knife, had seized his musket as he ran. His forebears had been outlaws with Robin Hood, skilful archers, and bowmen with Henry V at Agincourt, whose arrows never failed to find French marks. The same keen eye and strong arm were his with a musket.

"Do not shoot. Mark!" called out Argall breathlessly. He did not know what had happened prior to his own awakening, though his feet had stumbled over the dead bodies of his men. "The Indian princess is there in the water. Shoot not, for the love of heaven, or we'll have all the red hordes of America on top of Jamestown!"

Mark, however, had already made out the two figures in the water so close together that Argall's older eyes thought them but one. And just as Claw-of-the-Eagle, hampered by his wounded shoulder, was about to sink below the surface of the river to swim under water, Mark took aim. The bullet hit the top of the head, gashing the skin about the scalp-lock, but did not penetrate very deeply.



Pocahontas saw that he was not badly wounded; but the blood running down his face and into his mouth and nose made it impossible for him to breathe deeply enough to swim under water. His weakness from his other wound, too, made his motions slower. Before he would be able to put a safe distance between him and the pinnace the sailor would have fired again.

But he would not fire at her—the thought flashed through her brain!

With a few rapid strokes she had reached the brave and flung her arm under his wounded shoulder, bearing him up.

"Now, Claw-of-the-Eagle," she cried, "let us make for the shore. They will not dare fire at me."

And Argall and his men watched their hostage and the murderer of their companions making their escape, while they seemed powerless to prevent it. Though Claw-of-the-Eagle's strokes grew slower and slower, Pocahontas's strength was aiding him. Once on shore, the Englishmen knew that even though delayed by his wound, the two could hide so that no white man could find them. Besides, it was likely that other Indians might be lurking in the forest.

"Fooled! Fooled!" cried out Argall, hitting one fist against the other in his disappointment.

But Mark was not one who willingly gave up a chase he had begun. He saw that the two had reached a willow tree with roots that lay twisted about each other across the surface of the river. For one second the youth and maiden, close together, hung on to this natural shelf, gaining strength to pull themselves up on to the ground. He realized how disastrous it would be to injure the daughter of the Powhatan. Nevertheless, he determined to take a chance.

To the horror of his captain, he took careful aim and fired. This time the bullet found its mark—it hit the young brave in the back of his head and penetrated the brain.

In horror Pocahontas tried to catch him in her arms before he sank heavily, with no sound, out of sight. Gone! so quickly! Dead! The boy who had been her friend, who had tried to save her!

She could not weep as she floated along with no conscious movement. Then slowly she turned and swam back towards the pinnace, the sailors wondering if she was in truth returning to them. She let herself be helped over the side by Captain Argall.

"I will go with thee to Jamestown, now," was all that she said. She gave no explanation of what had happened and refused to answer their questions, or to tell them why she had chosen to go with them when she might have regained her freedom.

They had hoisted the anchor and started off after laying their dead comrades together. The sun was rising but the air was still chill and the sailors brought their dry coats to Pocahontas to throw over her and placed food before her. She would not touch it nor turn her face away from the river behind her.

As they began to sail slowly down the stream she leaned back over the gunwale and beheld, borne by a swift eddy, the body of Claw-of-the-Eagle float by her. She rose to her feet, the sunbeams falling upon her face and her uplifted arms, and she sang aloud a song of death as her tribe sang it while the river hurried with its burden seawards.



CHAPTER XVIII

A BAPTISM IN JAMESTOWN

Very unhappy was Pocahontas the rest of the voyage to Jamestown. Claw-of-the-Eagle had been dear to her as a brother, and she sorrowed for him greatly. It was forlorn to be away thus from her own people and among those whose ways and tongue were strange to her; and she longed for Nautauquas, whom she had not seen for several moons.

News of their coming had outrun them, and all of Jamestown was at the wharf to greet them. Captain Argall stepped ashore and explained that he had brought generous stores and what was of far greater value, the daughter of Powhatan. Sir Thomas Dale, in all the bravery of his best purple doublet and new bright Cordova leather boots, came forward and doffing his plumed hat, said:

"Welcome, Princess, and be not angry with us if we in all courtesy constrain thee to abide with us awhile. Let it not irk thee to visit us again, to stay for a few days with those who have been thy debtors since the time thou didst save the life of Captain Smith."

Pocahontas, whose anger had been rising at the treachery practised on her by Japezaws and Argall, had intended to show in her manner how she resented it; but the name of Captain Smith disarmed her. She recalled her white Brother's parting words to her.

She would befriend his colony, as she had ever done. So she smiled at Sir Thomas and spoke to those about whom she knew and let them show her the way to the house that they chose for her use, a few paces from the Governor's. Mistress Lettice, the wife of one of the gentlemen, who was to occupy it with her, laid out some of her own garments in case the Indian maiden should care to change; and Pocahontas, forgetting the dangers and sadness of the past days, laughed with amusement as she tried on farthingale and wide skirt.

"They are sending messengers to thy father. King Powhatan," the Englishwoman said as she showed Pocahontas how to adjust a starched ruff that scratched her neck so that she made a grimace. "They will tell him that thou art here, and then surely in his anxiety to see thee again, he will grant what Sir Thomas desires: that he deliver up our men and the arms he hath taken and give us three hundred quarters of corn. Perchance thou wouldst like to send some word of thine own to thy father. If so be, there is an Indian boy who hath brought fish to trade, and he can bear it for thee."

"Bring him to me, I pray thee," said Pocahontas, speaking slowly the unaccustomed English words.

She was looking at herself in the ebony-framed mirror that hung opposite the door, much interested in her strange appearance, when the Indian boy entered, following Mistress Lettice. She saw his face in the glass and recognized him as the son of a Powhatan chief. She turned and faced him, but knew that he did not recognize her. He looked no further than her clothes and so believed her an Englishwoman. It was a rare amusement, she thought, and she watched him eagerly to see his surprise when he should find out his mistake. She was well rewarded by his puzzled and astonished expression when she called out to him:

"Little Squirrel!" When she herself had stopped laughing, she added: "Take this sad message to old Wansutis. Tell her that her son, Claw-of-the-Eagle, hath met his death bravely and that Pocahontas mourns him with her."

Then she dismissed the boy. As he walked away she remembered that she desired him to bear also a special word to Nautauquas, so she started to run and call him back. But the unaccustomed weight of her clothes and shoes prevented her and she began to pull them off her even before she reached the house, crying out:

"Nay, I will not prison myself thus; give me back mine own garments," and she breathed deep breaths of satisfaction when she had resumed them.

Had the manner of her coming to Jamestown been otherwise, with no treachery and no compulsion which hurt her pride, Pocahontas would have much enjoyed her stay and a closer view of the ways of the English. As it was, she was restlessly awaiting the message her father would return to the demands of the colonists. The next day the messengers came back, bringing with them the Englishmen who had been held captive by Powhatan and some of the arms. The werowance promised, they reported, that when his daughter was restored to him he would give the corn which the white men asked for.

This answer did not satisfy the Council, and day by day there were parleyings in which the white men and the red men sought to constrain or evade each other. Each side recognized the value of Pocahontas as a hostage. She was not now unhappy. Even if the colonists had not done their best to requite with kindness all the care she had manifested for their welfare, policy would have led them to treat her with every consideration. She was made welcome everywhere, and she went from the guard house to that of the Governor, asking questions, eager to learn all details, from the way to fire off a musket to the heating of the sealing wax and the making of a great red seal which Master John Rolfe, Secretary and Recorder General of the Colony, affixed to all the documents sent to the Company in London.

He explained everything to her, taking pains to choose the simplest words, because he found a keen pleasure in watching her dark eyes brighten when she began to comprehend something which had puzzled her, and because her laughter and quick coming and going in the masculine atmosphere of the council room was a most agreeable change from its usual dull calm. He was a widower and, though he had got over the sadness of the loss of his wife, he still missed a woman's companionship. So he was nothing loath to follow when Pocahontas commanded one day:

"Come with me about the town and answer more of my questions. I have stored away as many as a squirrel stores nuts for popanow—what keeps the ship from floating with the tide down to the great water? Why doth that man sit with his legs before him?"—and she pointed to a carpenter who had been imprisoned in the stocks in punishment for theft—"And why?"—...

And Rolfe found himself kept as busy as Mr. Squirrel himself in cracking her questions for her.

She soon got over her awe of the white men, judging, now that she had a closer view of them, that they were in many ways like her own people. And seeing that her lightheartedness was pleasant to them, she teased and joked with them.

"Wilt thou eat a persimmon?" she asked Rolfe, smiling at the trap she was laying as she stood on tiptoe to pick one from a branch above her. And Rolfe bit into the golden fruit, not knowing that the persimmon till ripened by frost is for the eye only. She laughed with glee as she saw his mouth all puckered up until he believed it would never unpucker again.

"I'll pay thee for this some day," he threatened in mock anger as soon as he could speak; but she only laughed the more.

One of the reasons that Pocahontas was content to remain in Jamestown was that she hoped to get news of Captain Smith's return. Every day she would ask, sometimes Mistress Lettice, sometimes Sir Thomas Dale, or anyone with whom she spoke:

"When cometh back the Captain? I am longing to see my Brother."

And one told her one thing, one another, some lying because it was easier; some from sheer ignorance said they had heard that John Smith had gone back to fight the Turks; that he grew fat and lazy in his English home; that he was exploring further up the coast; that he might be expected at Jamestown with the next ship. And Pocahontas, believing those who said the last because she wished this to be the truth, was not unhappy to wait among strangers that she might be the first to welcome him.

The spot in the town which most excited her curiosity was the church. The colonists had now replaced the first rude hut by a substantial building with a tower. The bells that called Jamestown to daily prayers had a weird fascination for the Indian girl. They seemed to speak a language she could not understand. Nor could she understand the ceremony which she observed, wide-eyed, of the kneeling men and women and the white-robed clergyman who stretched out his arms over them.

"What doth it signify?" she queried; and Rolfe, remembering that the conversion of the heathen was one of the reasons given by Europe for sending colonies to the New World, tried to explain the mysteries of his faith to her. But he found it too difficult a task, and besought the Reverend Thomas Alexander Whitaker to undertake it in his stead.

This the zealous and gentle minister of the Gospel gladly consented to do. Here was the great opportunity he had desired since his coming to Virginia—to make an Indian convert so notable that this conversion might bring others in its train. Moreover the maiden herself interested him. But it was not so easy to go about it. Pocahontas's knowledge of English did not extend beyond the simplest expressions; and he found it necessary to translate the long and abstruse theological dogmas into familiar terms. He had almost despaired of making her comprehend until he recalled how his Master had taught in parables. So he retold the incidents of His life in stories which held the Indian maiden spellbound. He showed her pictures in heavy leathern-bound volumes, and tried with less success to explain the meaning of the daily religious services he conducted in the church.

"Why do ye put always flowers on that table?" she asked, pointing to the vases on the altar which the Governor bade keep always filled with fresh blossoms as long as the forests and river bank could supply them. "What good hath thy god of them?"

"Dost thou not take delight in the sunshine. Princess?" replied the priest as they sat in the cool shade of the darkened church looking out through the open door at waving green branches and the river beyond. "I have beheld thee lift up thine arms on a fair day when the swift white clouds moved across the blue heavens as if thou wouldst embrace the whole wide earth. Why dost thou take pleasure in such things?"

"Because," hesitated the maiden, seeking for a reason, "because they make me happy."

"Because," he added, "they are beautiful. And God who created all this beauty rejoiceth too in it—in green fields and noble trees, in lovely maidens, strong men and happy children. Therefore, in token thereof, we place beautiful flowers upon His table."

"And delighteth he not in incantations of shamans and jossakeed (inspired prophets) and in self-torture?" she queried.

"Nay," he answered; "such things are of the Devil; our God is love. Ponder upon the difference."

And Pocahontas did think much of what he told her. Her spirit was maturing in this new atmosphere like a quick-growing vine climbing higher each day. Dr. Whitaker's own fatherly kindness to her and to all the colony became for her the symbol of the tenderness of the God of whom he taught her. Then, too, this strange new deity was the god of her Brother, John Smith; and whatever in any way was dear to him she wanted to make her own.

For weeks the instruction continued and at last Dr. Whitaker told Sir Thomas Dale that he believed the Indian princess was now sufficiently impressed with the teachings of Christianity to be baptized. So Sir Thomas, meeting her one afternoon as she stood by the wharf watching men unload a ship but newly arrived from England, began:

"Good even, Princess, I rejoice at the news Dr. Whitaker hath even now imparted to me, that he hath instructed thee fully in the teachings of our blessed faith, and that thou hast shown wisdom and comprehension. The time hath therefore arrived for thee to bear witness before man to the truth and to accept the blessed sacrament of baptism at his hands and to swear publicly that thou wilt have naught more to do with the heathen gods whom thy people ignorantly worship."

"I will not give them up," Pocahontas cried out in anger such as she had not shown for many a day; and to Sir Thomas's amazement, she turned her back upon his presence and sped, swift as a fawn, into the thicket which still covered a portion of the island.

There she lay upon the ground, panting with emotion and passionately going over her arguments: "Why should I forsake the Okee of my fathers? Why should I hate what my brothers serve? Why should I prefer this god of the strangers?"

She did not know that a sudden attack of homesickness was the principal cause of this outburst. She was longing to sit at her father's knee, to hunt with Nautauquas; and she wondered if they had ceased to care for her that they left her to stay among the strangers.

Here, at sunset, Dr. Whitaker, set upon her track by the startled Sir Thomas, found her and seating himself beside her, he talked to her gently, not finding fault with her loyalty to her people and their beliefs, but explaining how they had never had the chance to hear what she was being taught, and how by acknowledging the Christians' God, she might lead those she loved to do the same and to benefit by His great gifts.

Not in one day did the clergyman convince her; but by the time April had come Pocahontas eagerly consented to her baptism. Clothed by Mistress Lettice in a simple white gown free from ruff and farthingale, with her long black hair hanging down her back, Pocahontas walked to the little church filled with all the inhabitants and a few Indians from the mainland who wondered what it all meant; and while the bells rang softly in the soft spring air, Pocahontas, the first of her race, was baptized into the Christian faith, with the new name of Rebecca.



CHAPTER XIX

JOHN ROLFE

To John Rolfe and to all who observed closely the Lady Rebecca—as she was now called—it seemed as if the little Indian maiden had put on a new womanly dignity since her baptism. And to John Rolfe in special she grew more lovely every day. He spent much time with her, strolling all over Jamestown island and even the mainland. In the woods she taught him as much as he taught her in the town: to observe the habits of the wild animals and to find his way through a trackless forest. Often they would go in a boat to catch fish or to dig for oysters in the Indian fashion.

At times Rolfe was very happy, and at other moments perplexed and cast down. It was joy for him to be in the company of one who made him feel how splendid a thing was life and how full of interest and beauty the woods, fields and river. Yet when the thought of marriage came to him he remembered the difficulties in the way. First, she was, though called a princess, only the child of a cruel savage chief and one accustomed to savage ways. Why should he, an English gentleman, choose her instead of a woman of his own race brought up in the manner of his people?

Then, even if he were willing, it was unlikely that Powhatan would consent to let his daughter wed a white man or the Governor on his side allow it. So he pondered; but no matter what the obstacles in his way, he came back again and again to his determination to win Pocahontas's love and to marry her. Now that she had become a Christian, there was one less barrier between them.

Rolfe believed that his feelings for Pocahontas had gone unnoticed by anyone, but Mistress Lettice, who had grown very fond of the Indian maiden confided to her especial care, was far from blind in anything that concerned her charge. Moreover, she had heard enough of the discussions which went on in the Council to know that such a marriage would be approved, since it would secure to the Colony the valuable friendship of Powhatan. But she was also aware of an obstacle which might prevent its coming to pass. This knowledge of hers she was determined to share.

One day she invited certain members of the Council to her house to drink a cask of sack her brother in London had sent her by the last ship. She had baked cake, also, and so excellent was its taste after the weariness of plain baker's bread, that many of her guests sighed at the remembrance of their womanless households; and those who had wives behind in England determined to send for them without further delay.

"But what I have to say, your Worships," she continued when she had ceased serving and had settled down in a highbacked chair to rest, "is that the Lady Rebecca will never wed another while she harboureth the thought of Captain Smith's return."

"What! did he teach her to love him?" exclaimed one who would gladly have listened to any ill of Smith.

"Nay, if ye should even question her thus she would not know how to reply. She thinketh and speaketh of him constantly and in her thoughts he standeth midway between a god and an elder brother, even as she doth call him. All the knowledge she acquireth is learned because she believeth he would wish it and will be glad to know that she is no longer the ignorant child of the woods as he first saw her. She wished even to delay her baptism because she expecteth him by every ship, and this I know full well—she will marry no man until she hath speech with Captain Smith or," here she paused significantly, "she believeth him to be dead."

She paused again to let her words sink in. Mistress Lettice wished no harm to Pocahontas. Indeed she loved her dearly and desired above all things to see her happy. And she believed that Rolfe as her husband would make her happy. Smith, if not indeed dead, was not likely to return to Jamestown, and therefore he might better be dead as far as Pocahontas was concerned, she thought. The worthy dame had picked her audience, which was composed chiefly of men who were well known to be enemies of Smith, who would not hold back from a slight untruth when they felt sure that it would help to secure safety from Indian attacks, which were proving so disastrous to their small community.

"We are mightily amazed at thy words. Mistress Lettice," said one of her guests at last; "and in truth it hath taken thy woman's eyes to see what was going on under our very noses and thy woman's tongue to show us the importance of Master Rolfe's courtship to the welfare of the Colony. If so small a thing as what thou hast suggested is all that stands between us and the confirmation of this marriage, why, that is as easily disposed of as this flagon of thy brother's sack which I drink to thy health."

He put the emptied cup upon the table and the company rose to go, now that both business and pleasure were finished. They did not need much talk about what they intended to do.

As they were bidding Mistress Lettice farewell, with many compliments on her housewifery and her zeal for the settlement, Pocahontas appeared at the door. She had been, as Mistress Lettice well knew, away with Rolfe, showing him how her people planted tobacco, since he had become much interested in this weed—being the first in the Colony to grow it—and had expressed what seemed to his neighbors ridiculous hopes of future wealth to be derived from the sale of tobacco in England.

Pocahontas looked about her with eagerness, and while the men doffed their hats, she asked:

"What hath happened, sirs, that so many come to visit us at one time? It is like our councils when the old chiefs debate about the council fires."

No one was anxious to be the first to answer, but since some reply was necessary, the councilor who had testified to Mistress Lettice's insight said slowly and solemnly:

"We have come. Princess, to condole with thee at the death of thy friend, Captain John Smith."

"Dead!" cried Pocahontas. "He is dead?"

And the men, who wished not to burden their consciences with a spoken lie, all nodded assent. They thought to see the girl burst into tears or run away, as they had more than once seen her do when she was displeased; but instead she stood still, her face as motionless as a statue's. They were glad to slip away with muttered words of sympathy.

Nor when they were gone did Mistress Lettice's curious and affectionate eyes witness any sign of sorrow.

"I own myself wrong," she said that night to her husband; "she careth naught for the Captain. I wept all day last Michaelmas when my old dog died."

But Mistress Lettice did not hear the door unlatched that night, nor the moccasined feet of Pocahontas as they sped through the street down to a quiet spot on the river bank whither she often went. The maiden's heart was so full that under a roof she felt it would burst. And until dawn she stood on the shore, her face turned eastward towards the sea across which he had sailed away, bewailing her "Brother" in the manner of her people, now calling to Okee to guide him to the happy hunting grounds, and now praying God to bear his soul to the Christian heaven.

* * * * *

John Rolfe found nothing amiss with Pocahontas when he saw her next day, nor did any of the conspirators tell him of the false news that they had communicated to Lady Rebecca or their interest in his wooing.

And his wooing was very gentle and wonderful to Pocahontas. No Indian lover, she knew, ever won his squaw in this way. She listened to his words with amazement when he told her that he wanted her to be his wife, to make a home for him in this new land. When she gave him her word she felt much as if she were the very heroine of one of the tales she had listened to so often about the lodge fire, a deer perhaps that was to be magically transformed into human shape, or a bird on whom the spirits had bestowed speech—so immeasurably superior did the English still appear to her.

It was some weeks later that Sir Thomas Dale, grown impatient for a settlement of their differences with Powhatan, decided to go to Werowocomoco and take Pocahontas with him to act as peacemaker. With them, on Argall's ship, went John Rolfe and Master Sparkes and one hundred and fifty men.

When they tried to land at a village near Werowocomoco the Indians were very arrogant and opposed their passage. In return the English fired upon them and when the terrified savages ran into the forest to escape the white men's weapons, the victors burned all the lodges of the town and wantonly spoiled the corn stacked up in a storehouse.

Pocahontas, who was sorrowful at the enmity between those she loved, besought Sir Thomas:

"Let me go among my people. They will harken to me and I will hasten to my father, and when he beholdeth me once more he will deny me nothing. And it is a long time since I have looked upon his face," she pleaded.

But Sir Thomas refused. He was not minded to lose this valuable hostage; even though Pocahontas might be eager to return, he was sure that the old chieftain would never let her leave him.

"Prithee, then," she suggested sadly, "send messengers in my name, saying that ye will abstain from further fighting for a night and day. If the messengers bear this feather of mine," here she took a white eagle's feather from her headband, "they may pass in safety where they will." As they were leaving she charged them: "And beg of my father to send my brothers to see me, since I may not go to them."

Now that she was so near home again she was homesick for the sight of some member of her family that she had not seen for many moons. Her father would not come, she felt sure, because he would not wish to treat with the white men in person. She waited anxiously, her eyes and ears strained for the sound of the messengers returning.

An hour or so later she beheld in the distance two tall figures approaching, and she sprang ashore from the boat, crying:

"Nautauquas! Catanaugh!" as her two brothers hurried to meet her.

"Is it indeed our little Matoaka?" asked Nautauquas, "and unharmed and well?"

He looked at her critically, as if seeking to discover some great change in her.

"We feared we knew not what evil medicine they might have used against thee, little Snow Feather. How have they dealt with thee in thy captivity?"

"But fear no longer," cried Catanaugh, whose glance was fixed upon the canoe of the palefaces; "we shall rescue thee now if we have to kill every one of them yonder to get thee free."

"Nay, my brothers," said Pocahontas, laying her hand gently on his sinewy arm, "they are my friends, and they have treated me well. Look! am I wasted with starvation or broken with torture? Harm them not. I am come to plead with our father to make peace with them. It is as if yon tree should plead with the sky and the earth not to quarrel, since both are dear to it. The English are a great nation. Let us be friends with them."

"Have they bewitched thee, Matoaka?" asked Catanaugh sternly. "Hast thou forgot thy father's lodge now that thou hast dwelt among these strangers?"

"Nay, Brother, but...."

Nautauquas was quick to notice Pocahontas's confusion and the blush that stole over her soft dark cheek.

"I think," he said, smiling at her, "that our little Sister hath a story to tell us. Let us sit here beneath the trees, as we so often sat when we were wearied hunting, and listen to her words."

It was not easy at first for Pocahontas to explain how it had come about. But as she sat there on the warm brown pine needles, snuggled closely against Nautauquas's shoulder, she found courage to tell of the strong, fine Englishman who had taught her so much, and how one day he had asked her to become his squaw after the manner of the white people. She told them also how Sir Thomas Dale, the Governor, had willingly given his consent.

"Believe ye not," she concluded, looking eagerly first at one and then the other of her brothers, "that our father will make peace for my sake with the nation to which my brave belongeth?"

Catanaugh said nothing, but Nautauquas laid his hand on his sister's arm and looked her in the eyes searchingly:

"Art thou happy?"

"Yea, Brother, very happy. He is dear to me because I know him and because I know him not. Thou surely hast not forgotten how Matoaka ever longed for what lay unknown beyond her."

"Hath thy manitou spoken?" questioned Nautauquas again.

"The God of the Christians is my god now," she answered.

"So should it be," said Nautauquas, although Catanaugh scowled; "a woman must worship the spirits to which her brave prayeth. Then all is well with thee?"

"All if my father will but make peace. I would I might go to see him. Doth he love me still?" she asked wistfully.

"He saith," answered Nautauquas, "that he loveth thee as his life and, though he hath many children, that he delighteth in none so much as in thee."

Pocahontas sighed half sadly, half happily. "Bear to him my loving greetings. Brother," she said, "and say to him that Matoaka's thoughts go to him each day, even as the tide cometh up the river from the sea."

"He hath agreed," said Catanaugh, "to a truce until taquitock (fall of the leaf) if the English will send important hostages to him, whom he may hold as they hold thee."

"And Cleopatra and our other sisters and old Wansutis, how is it with them all, and...." and Pocahontas strung the names of most of the inhabitants of Werowocomoco together in her enquiries. She listened to all the news they had to tell her of the great deeds accomplished by the young braves and the wise speeches made by the old chiefs in council, of the harvest dances, of the losses on the warpath, and of old Wansutis, who had grown more strange and more silent since Claw-of-the-Eagle's death. Then Pocahontas told them of the manner of his going; and Catanaugh's eyes flashed as he heard of the three palefaces his friend had slain.

They had not noticed how long they had sat there chatting until they saw Sir Thomas himself coming down from the ship, accompanied by Rolfe and Master Sparkes.

"These two, Princess," he said, "will be the hostages we send to thy father; and thy brothers will remain with us."

The two Indians looked at the white men keenly. From the glance their sister gave Rolfe they knew he must be her affianced husband. And Rolfe looked with the same curiosity at his future brothers-in-law. They were tall like their father, strong and well-built, men such as other men liked to look at, no matter what their color might be. But it was Nautauquas in particular that pleased him. He recalled that John Smith had said of him that he was "the most manliest, comliest, boldest spirit I ever saw in a savage."

After they had conversed for a little, Rolfe and Sparkes, accompanied by certain Indians to whom Nautauquas confided them, set out on their way to Werowocomoco. They did not fear that harm would come to them, but they begrudged the time they must spend away from the colony. On their arrival Powhatan, who was still angry with the English, refused to see them, so Opechanchanough entertained them and promised to intercede with his brother for them. Nautauquas's messenger had brought him the news of Rolfe's relation to his niece.

In the meantime the truce was extended until the autumn and the Englishmen were sent back to Jamestown. Nautauquas and Catanaugh had enjoyed their time on the island among the palefaces, Catanaugh being interested only in the fort and its guns and in the ship, and Nautauquas, not only in these, but in talking as well as he could with the colonists. He and Pocahontas again went hunting together on the mainland, for the Governor allowed them full liberty to come and go as they pleased, feeling sure that Nautauquas would keep his word not to leave Jamestown until the Powhatan sent back Rolfe and Sparkes.

And the day that these returned the two braves set off to join their father at Orapaks.



CHAPTER XX

THE WEDDING

Everyone in Jamestown was astir early one April morning in 1614. The soldiers and the few children of the settlement, impressed with the importance of their errand, had gone into the woods to cut large sprays of wild azalea and magnolia to deck the church.

Sir Thomas Dale, and in truth all the cavaliers of the town, had seen that their best costumes were in order, sighing at the moth holes in precious cloth doublets and the rents in Flemish lace collars and cuffs, yet satisfied on the whole with their holiday appearance. The few women of the Colony, Mistress Easton, Mistress Horton, Elizabeth Parsons and others, had of course prepared their garments many days before. It was not often they had an excuse for decking themselves in the finery they had packed with such care and misgivings back in their English homes; and this was an occasion such as no one in the world had ever before participated in. Here was an English gentleman of old lineage who was to wed the daughter of a great heathen ruler, one in whose power it lay to help or hinder the progress of this first permanent English colony in the New World. In addition to making themselves as gay as possible, they had prepared a wedding breakfast to be served to the gentry at the Governor's house, and the Governor had provided that meat and other viands and ale should be distributed from the general store to the soldiers and laborers and the Indians, their guests.

The guard at the fort was kept busy admitting the Indians and bidding them lay aside their bows, hatchets or knives; though in truth no one that day looked for any hostile act, since Powhatan's consent to his daughter's marriage had put an end to the enmity between them.

He himself had not come to the ceremony. He was not minded to set his foot upon any land other than his own, but he had sent as his representative Pocahontas's uncle, Opechisco, and many messages of affection to "his dearest daughter." The elderly werowance wore all the ceremonial robes of his tribe: a headdress of feathers, leggings and girdle and a long deerskin mantle heavily embroidered in beads of shell. With him came Nautauquaus and Catanaugh. The two wandered as they pleased through the town, and Nautauquaus, seeing Rolfe arrive in his boat from his plantation Varina, where he had built a house for Pocahontas, stepped forward to greet him. His love for Pocahontas made him desire to know her future husband better. Though this man was of another world than his, though his thoughts and ways were different, he was a man as he was; therefore the Indian brave tried to appraise him by the same methods he used in judging the men of his own race—and he was satisfied. Rolfe, recognizing him, shook hands heartily and talked for a while, enquiring about those of his family he had known while a hostage at Werowocomoco.

After Rolfe had left him to enter the Governor's house, Nautauquas turned to find out what Catanaugh was doing, but could see nothing of him.

Catanaugh had not felt the same interest in Rolfe as did his brother and had strolled away towards Pocahontas's house. He had a question he was eager to put to her while Nautauquas was not by. He found his sister in her white gown, with brightly embroidered moccasins on her feet and a circlet of beads and feathers about her head.

"Wilt thou not adorn thyself," he asked, "with the bright chains of the white men?"

"Nay, Brother," she answered; "it may be that I shall wear the strange robes some day, and the bright chains and jewels I will don to-morrow when I am the squaw of an Englishman; but to-day I am still only the daughter of Powhatan."

Catanaugh said nothing further, yet he still stood in the doorway.

"Enter," invited Pocahontas, "and behold how I live."

"I see enough," he answered, turning his head from side to side; "but where dwelleth the white man's Okee?"

"The God of the Christians?" she asked, puzzled at his question; "in the sky above."

"But where do the shamans call to him?" he continued.

"Yonder in the church, that building with the peak to it," she pointed out.

"I will walk some more," announced Catanaugh and left her. When he thought Pocahontas was no longer observing him, he hastened in the direction of the church. During his former short stay in Jamestown he had never been inside and had thought of it—if he paid any attention to it at all—as some kind of a storehouse.

He found the door open and entered quietly, glancing cautiously about until he had assured himself that it was empty. Then he pushed the door to and fastened it with the bolt. This done, he set about examining the building curiously. At the end, towards the rising sun, was an elevation of three steps which made him think of the raised dais that ran across the end of Powhatan's ceremonial lodge. This was lined with the reddish wood of the cedar, and there was a dark wooden table covered with a white cloth standing in it, and the sun shining through the windows above made the vases filled with flowers glisten brightly. In the part where he stood there were many benches and chairs, and everywhere that it was possible to stand or hang them, was a profusion of fragrant flowering branches.

The very simplicity of the church awed him; had there been a multiplicity of furnishings, of strange objects whose use he could not comprehend, he would have felt he had something definite to watch and fear. His impulse was to flee out into the sunshine, and he turned towards the door. Then he remembered his object in coming and stood still again.

He listened intently, but there was no sound; then taking from the pouch that hung at his side a lump of deer's suet, he smeared it about the sides of the benches and the backs of the chairs. Then with a handful of tobacco taken from the same receptacle he began to sprinkle a small circle in the centre aisle. When this was complete he seated himself crosslegged inside of it. Slowly and deliberately he drew from the larger pouch slung at his back and covered by his long mantle, a mask, somewhat out of shape from its confinement in a small space, and a rattle made of a gourd filled with pebbles. He attached the mask to his face as carefully as if he were to be observed by all his tribe, and laid the rattle across his knees. All these preparations had taken place so quietly that no one who might have been in the church could have discovered the Indian's presence by the aid of his ears alone.

Catanaugh had not come to Jamestown with the sole idea of witnessing his sister's wedding. It was not altogether of his own will that he was now about to undertake a dangerous experiment. He was by no manner of means a coward: his long row of scalps attested to his prowess as a brave; but, unlike Nautauquas, he was one who followed where others led, who obeyed when others commanded. He was fierce in fight, relentless to an enemy, could not even dream as did his father and brother that the white men might become valuable allies and friends. He would gladly have killed them all, and he had grown more and more unwilling that Pocahontas should unite herself to one of these interlopers, as he called them, because he realized that her marriage would make a bond of peace between the two peoples. He had hoped to discover that Pocahontas was being forced into this marriage, in which case he had been prepared to carry her off by some desperate deed at the last moment; but he could not help seeing that she was happy and free in her choice, and would never follow him willingly or go quietly if he tried to make her.

Catanaugh was a member of the secret society of Mediwiwin and he was one who had great faith in medicine men and shamans. He never undertook even a hunting expedition unless he had had a shaman consult his Okee to decide if the day would be a lucky one. In every religious ceremony he would take an active part, would fast if the shamans said it was pleasing to Okee, would kill his enemies or save them for slaves, whichever the shamans suggested. He was himself little of a talker except when after victory he was loud and long in his boasting; but he loved nothing better than to listen when the shamans told tales, as they sat on winter evenings around a lodge fire, or as they lay during the long summer twilights on the soft dried grass, of the transformations of human beings into otter, bear or deer forms, of the pursuit of evil demons, of magic incantations. And the shamans, sure always of an audience in Catanaugh, made much of him, and in many ways without his knowing it, used him as a tool.

Now, it was at their bidding that he sat there motionless, except for his lips, which recited in a tone as regular and as loud as a tree-toad's the words of an incantation they had taught him. And all the time he, who had never trembled before an enemy, was trembling from fear of the unknown. Of course, it was wise for the shamans to make this trial, but he wished it had been possible for one of them to have taken his place. But they knew they would never have got the chance to slip unnoticed as he had done into the lodge of the white man's Okee.

He wondered how this strange Okee would answer his call, for answer he knew he must. The incantation was such strong medicine that no spirit could resist it, especially when he shook the rattle as he did now, rising to his feet and lifting his foot higher and higher, as bending over, he went round and round on his tiptoes, always within the confines of the tobacco circle. The shamans had been determined to find out what kind of an Okee protected the white men, and it was only in this spot they could do so. The palefaces knew so many things the Indian had never learned and which he must learn if he was to hold his own against the terrible medicine of the strangers.

Catanaugh was afraid he might forget some of the magic words the Okee would speak, which the shamans had told him he must hold fast in his mind as he would hold a slippery eel in his hand. Even if he didn't understand them he must just remember them, because they would be wise enough to interpret them. He meant, too, if he only had the courage, to try to make the Okee prevent the wedding.

He had been shaking the rattle gently for fear it might be heard outside the church; but now, anxious to bring this dreadful task to an end, he began to shake it with all his might in one last challenge to the strange spirit.

Bim! Bam! Boum! BOUM! Bim!

Catanaugh jumped like a deer that hears the crackle of a twig behind it. Here in the deep brazen voice of the marriage bells ringing out in the belfry above him he thought he heard the answer his incantation had forced from the white man's Okee. But the voice was so terrible, so loud, that, forgetting the shaman's injunctions, forgetting everything but his need to escape, he rushed to the door, unbolted it frantically and ran, still pursued by the "him, barn, boum" till he reached the fort, where the frightened sentries, who had no orders to keep any Indian from leaving the town, let the masked figure through the gates.

Dr. James Buck, who with Dr. Whitaker, was to perform the ceremony, arrived at the church just as the wedding party was starting from the other end of the town. His foot hit against something. He stooped and picked up a rattle and his fingers were covered with brown dust. Hastily seizing a broom which stood in the vestry-room, he swept the tobacco down the aisle and into a corner. The curious rattle he hid with the replaced broom, to be investigated later. Then he took his stand in the chancel, where Dr. Whitaker soon joined him, and through the open door the two clergymen watched their flock approach. Most of them were men, cavaliers as finely dressed, if their garments were somewhat faded, as though they were to sit in Westminster Abbey; soldiers in leathern jerkins; bakers, masons, carpenters, with freshly washed face and hands, in their Sunday garments of fustian and minus workaday aprons; and the few women were in figured tabbies and damasks.

Now when the congregation had filled every seat and were lined up against the walls, a number of Indians, all relatives of Pocahontas, slipped in and stood silently with faces that seemed not alive except for the keenness of their curious eyes. Them through the doorway came Pocahontas and old Opechisco and Nautauquas.

A sudden feeling of the wonder of this marriage overcame Alexander Whitaker. This Indian maiden who was a creature of the woods, shy and proud as a wild animal, was to be married by him to an Englishman with centuries of civilization behind him. What boded it for them both and for their races?

Then with love for the maiden whom he had baptized and with faith in his heart, he listened while Dr. Buck began, until he himself asked in a loud, clear voice:

"Rebecca, wilt thou take this man to be thy wedded husband?"

After the feast was over the bride said to her husband, using his Christian name shyly for the first time:

"John, wilt thou walk with me into the forest a little?"

And Rolfe, nothing loath to escape the noisy crowd, rose to go with her.

"Why dost thou care to come here?" he asked when they found themselves beyond the causeway in the woods flecked with the white of the innumerable dogwood trees.

"Because I feel Jamestown too small to-day, John; because I have ever sought the forest when I was happy or sad; because it seemeth to me that the trees and beasts would be hurt if I did not let them see me this great day."

"'Tis a pretty fancy, but a pagan one, my child," said Rolfe, frowning slightly.

But Pocahontas did not notice. She had caught a glimpse across the leafy branches of the spotted sides of a deer, and she saw a striped chipmunk peer at her from overhead.

"Hey! little friends," she called out gaily to them, "here's Pocahontas come to greet ye. Wish her happiness, that her nest may be filled with nuts. Little Dancer, and cool shade, Bright Eyes, in hot noondays." Then as two wood pigeons flew by she clapped her hands gently together and cried:

"Here's my mate, Swift Wings, wish us happiness."

And John Rolfe, sober Englishman that he was, felt uprise in him a new kinship with all the breathing things of the world, and he wondered whether this Indian maiden he had made his wife did not know more of the secrets of the earth than the wise men of Europe.



CHAPTER XXI

ON THE TRAIL OF A THIEF

Pocahontas, clothed in European garb, was returning to her home at Varina from the river, whither she had accompanied John Rolfe half a day's journey towards Jamestown. The boatmen had escorted her from the skiff and now doffed their hats as she bade them come no further.

In the two years which had passed since her marriage, the little Indian maiden had learned many things: to speak fluently the language of her husband's people, to wear in public the clothes of his countrywomen, and to use the manners of those of high estate. She had always been accustomed to the deference paid her as the daughter of the great werowance, ruler over thirty tribes, and now she received that of the English, who treated her as the daughter of a powerful ally. For Powhatan had seen the wisdom of keeping peace between Werowocomoco and Jamestown and its settlement up the river of Henrici, of which Rolfe's estate, Varina, was a portion.

Indeed, so stately was the manner of the Lady Rebecca that it was with difficulty that many could recall the wide-eyed maiden who used to come and go at Jamestown.

Now as she ascended the hill her eyes rested upon the home Rolfe had built for her. It was to the eyes of Englishmen, accustomed to the spacious manor houses of their own country, little more than a cabin. But to one who had seen nothing finer than the lodges of her father's towns, it was a very grand structure indeed, with its solid framework of oak, its four rooms, its chimney of brick and its furnishings sent over from London. Her husband had promised her that they should bring back many other wonderful arrangements when they returned from England.

She was a little warm from her climb and was looking forward to the moment when she could discard her clothes for her loose buckskin robe and moccasins. Rolfe, though he did not forbid them altogether, was not pleased at the sight of them; and Pocahontas this day was conscious of a slight feeling of relief that there were to be several days of his absence in which she could forget to be an Englishwoman.

She might forget for a while but only for a while for she was a happy and dutiful wife; but she could never forget that she was a mother, that her wonderful little Thomas, not so white as his father, nor so dark as herself, was waiting for her at the house. She hurried on, thinking of the fun she would have with him: how she would take him down to a stream and let him lie naked on the warm rocks, and how she would sing Indian songs to him and tell him stories of the beasts in the woods, even if he were too little to understand them.

She had left him in his cradle where, protected by its high sides, he was safe for hours at a time, and the workmen who were helping her husband start a tobacco plantation at Varina looked in often to see if he were all right.

She entered the house and hurrying to the cradle, called out:

"Little Rabbit, here I am."

But when she bent over the side, behold! the cradle was empty.

She looked in every room, but found no sign of him. Then she rushed to the door and called. Three of the men came running, and they told her, speaking one on top of the other, how half an hour after she and their master had left one of them had gone to look at the child and found the cradle empty. Since then they had been searching the place over, but with no success.

It was quite impossible for the child to have got away alone; yet who would take him away? Indians or white folk, there was none in all Virginia who would dare injure the grandchild of Powhatan.

When she had listened to what they had to say, Pocahontas bade them go and continue their search. When she was alone she sat down, not on the carven chair a carpenter had made her in Jamestown, but on the floor, as she had so often sat about the lodge fire when she wished to think hard.

After a long period of absolute silence and motionlessness she rose, took off her hat, gown and shoes and clothed herself in her Indian garments. Now she knelt by the cradle and examined the floor carefully, then the sill of the door and the ground in front of it. Something she must have discovered, for she sniffed the air eagerly like a hound that had found the scent. She weighed her decision a moment—should she turn in the direction of Powhata, where she knew Powhatan was staying, or should it be in the direction of Werowocomoco? She turned towards the latter, and stooping every few minutes to examine the ground, proceeded quickly on her quest.

It was the slightest imprint here and there on the earth of a moccasined foot which was the clue. Her brothers and sisters came to see her occasionally; but what purpose could one of them have in stealing her child? No hostile Indians any longer, thanks to the fear Powhatan's might and the English guns had spread among them, were ever seen in this part of the country; so while she hurried on she wondered whence this Indian kidnapper could have come. That it was an Indian she was certain, and that he bore the child she knew, because lying on a rock in the trail she had found a piece of the chain of chinquapins she had amused herself stringing together to place about little Thomas's neck.

Now that she was on the right trail it did not enter her mind to return to her husband's men for help or to send a messenger to Jamestown to fetch him back. She knew well that she was far better fitted than any white man to follow swiftly and surely the way her child had gone. It might be, since the thief had several hours' advantage, that it would be days before she could catch up with him; but if it took years and she had to journey to the end of the world she would not falter nor turn back for help.

As she travelled through the forest in the quick step that was almost a trot, the polish of her English life fell away from her as the leaves fell from the trees above her. She forgot the happenings of the two years since she had been the "Lady Rebecca," forgot her husband; and her baby was no longer the heir of the Rolfes about to be taken across the sea to be shown to his kinsmen; he was her papoose, and as she ran she called out to him all the pet names the Indian mothers loved. When she thought that he might be crying with terror or hunger she began to pray, prayers that came from the depth of her heart that she might reach him before he really suffered. But these prayers were not to the God of the Christians, but to the Okee her fathers had worshipped.

Many times the trail was almost invisible. There was little passing of feet this way and in no place was there anything like a path. But Pocahontas's eyes, keener than even in the days when they had rivalled her brother's in following in play the trail the pursued did his best to cover up, were never long at fault. The ground, the bushes from which raindrops had been shaken, a broken twig—all helped her read the way she was to go. If she could only tell whether she were gaining!

What she would do when she came face to face with the thief she did not know. If he were a strong man who defied her command to give up the grandson of Powhatan, how should she compel him? She had started off so hastily that she had not armed herself with any weapon. But she did not doubt that in some way or other she would wrest her child from him.

The sun was sinking; its beams, she saw, struck now the lower part of the tree trunks. Seeing this, she quickened her step; once the night fell she would have to lie down and wait for morning for fear of missing the trail.

It was almost dark when she reached a sort of open space the size of three lodges width, where doubtless the coming of many wild beasts to drink of a spring that bubbled up in the centre had worn down the growth of young trees. On one side of the ground where moss and creeping crowfoot grew, there were overhanging rocks which formed a small cave not much deeper than a man's height.

No longer could she see a footprint in the dusk, so Pocahontas sadly prepared to spend the night in this shelter. She leaned down and drank long from the spring, and taking off her moccasins, bathed her tired feet in it. Then because she wanted a fire more for its companionship than for the warmth, she gathered twigs, and twirling one in a bit of rotten wood, soon produced a spark that lighted a cheerful blaze.

There was nothing to be gained by staying awake. There was no one from whom she had anything to fear except possibly the thief, and the sooner they met the better pleased she would be. She was drowsy from the warmth of the fire and tired from the long pursuit, so Pocahontas lay down at the entrance of the cave, half within and half without, and in a moment was fast asleep.

Several times during the night she was half awakened by the sound of some young animal crying—perhaps a bear cub, she thought sleepily, but even were the mother bear nearby she had no fear of her.

Later on she dreamed that the mother bear had come into the cave and was sniffing her all over. She opened her eyes and saw the glow from the embers reflected in a pair of eyes above her.

"Go away, old Furry One!" she commanded drowsily. "I'm not afraid of thee. Be off and let me sleep."

But the sound of her own voice wakened her and she raised herself to a sitting position to see whether the bear were obeying her. Against the almost extinguished embers she saw the dim outlines—not of the beast she expected, but of a human being! She sprang up, seized hold of it with her right hand before the other had time to escape, and with her left hand caught up some dried twigs and threw them on the remains of the fire. The wood already heated, ignited at once; the blaze lighted up the little forest room and Pocahontas beheld—Wansutis!

"Where is my child?" cried Pocahontas. "What hast thou done with him? And so it was thou who alone in all the world didst dare steal him from me. What hast thou done with my son? Speak!"

The old woman did not struggle under the firm grasp of the young strong hands. She stood still as if alone, staring into the flames that reddened the circle of trees as if they had been stained with blood.

"What hast thou done with my son?" cried Pocahontas again.

"What hast thou done with my son?" asked the old woman, without turning her head to look at Pocahontas.

"Thy son! Claw-of-the-Eagle? Why! I sent thee word many moons ago, Wansutis, that he was dead."

"Hadst thou loved him he had not died."

"I loved him as a sister, Wansutis; my fate lay not in my hands. But Claw-of-the-Eagle is dead, and we mourn him, thou and I"—here she loosened her grasp on the old woman's shoulder, "but my son is alive unless—"

Here a dreadful possibility made her shake like an aspen.

"What hast thou done with my son, Wansutis? What didst thou want with him?"

Wansutis, who was now crouched down looking at the heart of the fire, began to chant as if alone:

"Wansutis's son died in battle. No stronger, fiercer brave was there in all the thirty tribes, and Wansutis's lodge was empty and there was none to hunt for her, to slay deer that she might feed upon fresh meat. Then Wansutis saw a prisoner with strong body, though it was yet small, and Wansutis had a new son, a swift hunter, whose face was ruddy by the firelight, whose presence in her lodge made Wansutis's slumbers quiet. And this son wanted a maiden for his squaw and went forth to play upon his pipes before her. But the maiden would not listen and the river and the maiden killed the brave son of Wansutis, and again her lodge was lonely."

She ceased for a moment, then as if she were reading the words in the flames, she sang more slowly:

"I am old, saith old Wansutis, yet I'll live for many harvests. I will seek another son now; I will bring him to my wigwam. He shall watch me and protect me; he will cheer me in the winters."

Pocahontas interrupted her:

"That then is the reason thou didst steal my child. Thou shalt not keep him; he is not for thy lodge. He goeth with his father and with me to be brought up in the houses of the English."

There came a cry from the forest, the same cry she had heard in her dreams. Without an instant's doubt, Pocahontas sprang into the blackness and in a few moments came back with the baby in her arms. She squatted down by the fire, and felt it over feverishly until she had convinced herself that it was unharmed.

Wansutis now rose.

"Farewell, Princess," she said. "Wansutis will now be returning to her lodge."

Now that she had her child safe again, Pocahontas's kind heart began to speak:

"Wansutis, thou knowest I cannot let thee have my son; but if thou wilt I will pray my father to give thee the next young brave he captures that thou mayst no longer be lonely."

"I will seek no more sons," answered the old woman; "perchance he might set off for a far land and leave me even as thy father's daughter leaveth him."

"But I will return to him," protested Pocahontas.

"Dost thou know that?" the old woman asked, leaning down and peering directly into Pocahontas's face. Her gaze was so full of hatred that Pocahontas drew back in terror.

"I see a ship"—Wansutis began to chant again—"a ship that sails for many days towards the rising sun; but I never see a ship that sails to the sunset. I see a deer from the free forests and it is fettered and its neck is hung with wampum and flowers; but the deer seeks in vain to escape to its bed of ferns in the woodland. I see a bird that is caught where the lodges are closer together than the pebbles on the seashore; but I never see the bird fly free above their lodge tops. I hear the crying of an orphan child; but the mother lieth where she cannot still it."

Pocahontas gazed in horrible fascination at the old woman who, with another harsh laugh, vanished into the darkness.



CHAPTER XXII

POCAHONTAS IN ENGLAND

It was an eager, happy Pocahontas that set sail with her husband. Master Rolfe, her child and last—but not in his own estimation—Sir Thomas Dale. With them, too, went Uttamatomakkin, a chief whom Powhatan sent expressly to observe the English and their ways in their own land.

Everything interested Pocahontas on the voyage: the ship herself, the hoisting and furling of sails in calms and tempests, the chanteys of the sailors as they worked, the sight of spouting whales and, as they neared the English coast, the magnificence of a large ship-of-war, a veteran, so declared the captain, of the fleet which went so bravely forth to meet the Spanish Armada. During the long evenings on deck Rolfe told her stories of real deeds of English history and fancied romances of poets; and all were equally wonderful to her.

She could scarcely believe after she had sailed so many weeks over the unchanging ocean, where there were not even the signs to go by that she could read in the trackless forest, that there was land again beyond all the water. It was a marvel which no amount of explanations could simplify that men should be able to guide ships back and forth across this waste. Perhaps this more than any of the wonders she was to see later was what made her esteem the white men's genius most.

And then one day a grey cloud rested on the eastern horizon. Pocahontas saw a new look in her husband's face as he caught sight of it.

"England!" he cried, and then he lifted little Thomas to his shoulder and bade him, "Look at thy father's England."

Even before they stepped ashore at Plymouth Pocahontas's impressions of the country began. On board the ship came officers from the Virginia Company to greet her and put themselves and the exchequer of the Company at her disposal. Was she not the daughter of their Indian ally, a monarch of whose kingdom and power they possessed but the most confused idea. They had arranged, they said, suitable lodgings for Lady Rebecca, Master Rolfe and their infant in London and—with much waving of plumed hats and bowing—they would attend in every manner to her comfort and amusement.

These men were different from any Pocahontas had ever seen; the colonists were all, willy nilly, workers, or at least adventure lovers. These comfortable citizens were of a type as new to her as she to them.

As they rode slowly on their way to London at every mile of the road she cried out with delighted interest and questioned Rolfe without ceasing about the timbered and stuccoed cottages, the beautiful hedges, the rich farms and paddocks filled with horses and cattle. At midday and at night when they stopped at the inns, she was eager to examine everything, from the still-room to the fragrant attics where bunches of herbs hung from the rafters. Yet even in her girlish eagerness she bore herself with a dignity that never allowed the simplest to doubt that, in spite of her dark skin, she was a lady of high birth.

"Ah! John," she said, "this is so fair a land; I know not how thou couldst leave it. I can scarcely wait when I lie abed at night for the morn to come. There is ever something new, and new things, thou knowest, have ever been delightful to my spirit."

"And to mine also, Rebecca," he answered; "for that reason did I seek Wingandacoa and rejoiced in its strangeness, even as thou dost rejoice in the strangeness of my country."

The nearer they drew to London the more there was to see. The highway was filled with those coming and going from town; merchants, farmers with their wares, butchers, travelling artisans, tinkers, peddlers, gypsies, great ladies on horseback or in coaches, who stared at Pocahontas, and gentlemen who questioned the servants about her. And Pocahontas asked Rolfe about all of them, of their condition, their manner of living and what their homes were like within.

When they reached the outskirts of London the crowds increased so that Pocahontas turned to Rolfe and asked:

"Why do all the folk run hither and thither? Is there news of the return of a war party or will they celebrate some great festival?" And she could hardly believe that it was only a gathering such as was to be seen every day. However, as soon as those in the crowd caught sight of her they began to press more closely to gaze at her and at Uttamatomakkin, who looked down at them as unconcernedly as if he had been accustomed to such a sight all his life. Officers of the Virginia Company appeared just then with a coach, into which they conducted Pocahontas, Rolfe and little Thomas, so that they escaped from the curiosity of the crowd.

The days that followed were filled with strange and new enjoyments. Mantuamakers and milliners brought their wares, and Lady Rebecca soon began to distinguish what was best in what they had to offer. She drove in the parks, was rowed down the river in gorgeous barges, had her portrait painted in a gold-trimmed red robe with white collar and cuffs and a hat with a gold band upon it, received the great ladies who came out of curiosity to see for themselves what an Indian princess might be like. All of them had only kind things to say about "the gentle Lady Rebecca."

The Bishop of London was in especial interested in this heathen noblewoman who had become a Christian. He was her escort on many occasions and decided to give a great ball in her honour.

"What will they do, Master Bishop?" she asked of the dignitary who had grown as fond of this new lamb in his flock as if she were his own daughter. "What will all the ladies do at a ball?"

"They will dance."

"Dance!" exclaimed Pocahontas in amazement, who had never seen any other kind of dancing than that which she herself, clad in scant garments, had been wont to practice before she became the wife of an Englishman. This, she now knew, was not of a character suited for English ladies. So, some days later, watching the stately measures and the low reverences of ladies and their cavaliers, Pocahontas wondered what pleasure they could find in such an amusement.

"Perchance, though," she suggested to the good Bishop, "it is some religious ceremony which I know not."

The Bishop laughed so at this idea that Pocahontas could not help laughing, too, though she did not understand what was funny in her speech.

After the dance was over the ladies came to be presented to Lady Rebecca. They did not know what they ought to talk to the stranger about; but one of them in a dull mouse-colored tabby, with sad-colored ribbons, remarked languidly:

"What a fine day we are having."

"Fine!" exclaimed Pocahontas, looking up at the grey sky through the window, which to be sure had not dropped any rain for twenty-four hours, "but the sun is not shining. I should think here in England ye would wear your gayest garments to brighten up the landscape."

"Then the Lady Rebecca doth not like our country?" queried the dame in grey.

"Ah, but yea. In truth it pleaseth me mightily, all but the dark skies. And they tell me that is because of the smoke of the city."

Then Pocahontas's eyes caught sight of an older woman whom Rolfe was escorting towards her. There was something about her appearance that was very pleasing. She was a little above medium height, with hair silvered in front and with cheeks as full of color as the roses she carried in her hands. Pocahontas felt at once that here was a woman whom she could love. Her manner was as dignified as that of any lady in the assemblage, but there was a heartiness in her voice and in her glance which made Pocahontas feel at home as she had not before felt in England.

"This is Lady De La Ware, whose husband, thou knowest, Rebecca, was Governor of our Colony," said Rolfe, "and she hath brought these English roses to thee." Then he strolled off, leaving the two women together.

"They are very beautiful, thy flowers," said Pocahontas, smiling at them and at their giver, "and sweeter than the blossoms that grow in my land."

"Yet those are wonderful, too. I have heard of many glorious trees and vines which grow there and I would that I might see them."

"If thou wilt cross the ocean with us when we return, I will show thee many things that would be as strange to thee as thy land is to me. I would take thee to my father, Powhatan, and he would give dances in thine honour that would not be"—and she laughed again at the thought—"like the ball my Lord Bishop giveth me."

Lady De La Ware smiled, too. She had been told something about the Indian customs.

"Perhaps some day thou shalt take me to thy father's court; but now I am come to take thee to that of our Queen. She hath expressed her desire to see thee shortly. A letter which was written her by Captain John Smith about thee hath made her all the more eager to do honour to one who hath ever befriended the English."

"Captain John Smith hath written to the Queen about me?" said Pocahontas, marvelling.

"In truth, and since his words seemed to me worthy of remembrance, I have kept them in my mind." He begins:

"'If ingratitude be a deadly poyson to all honest vertues, I must be guiltie of that crime if I should omit any meanes to be thankfull. So it is that some ten years ago being in Virginia, and taken prisoner by the power of Powhatan, their chief King, I received from this great savage exceeding great courtesy, especially from his son, Nautauquas, the most manliest, comeliest, boldest spirit I ever saw in a savage, and his sister, Pocahontas, the King's most dear and well beloved daughter, being but a child of twelve or thirteen years of age, whose compassionate pitiful heart, of my desperate estate, gave me much cause to respect her—she hazarded the beating out of her own brains to save mine ... the most and least I can do is to tell you this, because none so oft tried it as myself, and the rather being of so great a spirit, however her stature, if she should not be well received, seeing this Kingdom may rightly have a Kingdom by her means—' And much more there was, Lady Rebecca, which I cannot now recall."

Lady De La Ware did not know that Pocahontas believed Smith dead, and Pocahontas, not imagining anything else, thought Smith must have written this letter from Jamestown before he died; and her heart grew warm thinking how, even dying, he had done what he could for her happiness on the mere chance of her going to England. The truth of the matter was that Smith was then at Plymouth, making ready to start on an expedition to New England; and though he did not expect to see Pocahontas, he wished England, and first of all England's Queen, to know what they owed this Indian girl.

It happened not long after that "La Belle Sauvage," as the Londoners sometimes called Pocahontas, and Rolfe were being entertained at a fair country seat. An English girl, much of the age of her guest, whose curiosity about the ways of the Indians was restrained only by her courtesy, had been showing her through the beautiful old garden. They had talked of Virginia, and Mistress Alicia coaxed:

"Wilt thou not take me with thee. Lady Rebecca, when thou returnest thither?

"But see," and she peered through an opening in the high yew hedge, "yonder cometh Master Rolfe with a party of gentlemen. Oh! one of them is a brave figure of a man, though he weareth not such fine clothes as some of the others. By my troth! 'tis Captain John Smith, and of course he cometh to greet thee. I would I might stay to hear what ye two old friends have to say to each other."

It seemed to Pocahontas that hours elapsed during the few minutes she was alone after Mistress Alicia left her, while her husband was guiding her guests to her through the garden's winding mazes. How could Smith be alive when she knew that he was dead? Even as she caught in the distance the sound of his voice, she asked herself if in truth she had ever heard of his death from anyone but the councillors in Jamestown.

The well-known voice was no longer weak as when she had last heard it bid her farewell. There they were, the gentlemen all bowing to her but remaining in the background, while Rolfe came forward with Smith.

"I have brought thee an old friend, Rebecca," he said.

Pocahontas saluted him, but words were impossible.

John Smith afterwards wrote concerning this interview:

"After a modest salutation, without any word, she turned about, obscured her face, as not seeming well contented, and in that humor her husband with divers others, we all left her two or three hours."

Seeing that she preferred to be alone, the men departed to talk over the affairs of the Virginia Colony since Smith had left Jamestown. Pocahontas, sitting quietly on a garden bench near the carp pond, went over in her thought all that had taken place in her own life since then.

Then she saw him coming towards her again, alone, and she stretched out her hand to him.

"My father," she cried, "dost thou remember the old days in Wingandacoa when thou earnest first to Werowocomoco and wert my prisoner?"

"I remember well. Lady Rebecca," he said, leaning down to kiss her hand, "and I am ever thy most grateful debtor."

"Call me not by that strange name. Matoaka am I for thee as always. Dost thou remember when I came at night through the forest to warn thee?"

"I remember, Matoaka; how could I forget it?"

"Dost thou remember the day when, lying wounded before thy door, thou didst make me promise to be ever a friend to Jamestown and the English?"

"I have thought of it many a day."

"I have kept my promise, Father, have I not?"

"Nobly, Matoaka; but it is not meet that thou shouldst call me father."

Then Pocahontas tossed her head emphatically, and this gesture brought back to Smith the bright young Indian maiden who, for a moment, had seemed to him disguised by the stately clothes of an English matron.

"Thou didst promise Powhatan," she cried, "what was thine should be his, and he the like to thee; thou calledst him father, being in his land a stranger, and by the same reason so must I do thee."

"But, Princess," he objected, "it is different here. The King would like it not if I allowed it here; he might say it was indeed truth what mine enemies say of me, that I plan to raise myself above them."

"Wert thou afraid to come into my father's country and caused fear in him and all his people but me, and fearest thou here I should call thee father? I tell thee then I will and thou shalt call me child, and so will I be for ever and ever thy countryman."

Smith smiled at her eagerness, yet was deeply touched by it.

"Call me then what thou wilt; I can fear no evil that might come to me from thee."

Pocahontas then spoke a few words to him in the Powhatan tongue, anxious to see if he still remembered it. And he answered her in her language. She was silent, but Smith could see that something was disturbing her.

"What is it, Matoaka; what words wait to cross the ford of thy lips?" he asked.

"They did tell me always," she replied, "that thou wert dead and I knew no more till I came to Plymouth, yet Powhatan did command Uttamatomakkin to seek thee and know the truth, because thy countrymen will lie much."

"Think of it no more. Little Sister, if thou still let me call thee that. I am not dead yet and I have many journeys to make. I thank fate I had not yet sailed for that coast to the north of Jamestown they call 'New England,' so that I might greet thee once again. When I return we shall have many more talks together."

"I shall not be here, Father; we too shall set sail ere long. I have been happy here in thy land, but I am now suffering from an illness they tell me is called homesickness."

"That is an illness which may be easily remedied, Matoaka. But when thou art come again to Wingandacoa forget not the England and the friends which can never forget thee."

* * * * *

In the days that followed Lady De La Ware, touched by the affection Pocahontas manifested towards her, accompanied her everywhere, to the wonderful masque written by the poet, Ben Jonson, which was performed at the Twelfth Night festival, and to the play written by Master Will Shakespeare that he called "The Tempest," which represented court folk cast ashore on an island in the western ocean.

Everything was so full of interest that her new life seemed to be leading her further and further away from the old simple existence of forest and river. Then came the presentation to the Queen, Anne of Denmark, consort of James First of England and Sixth of Scotland. Lady De La Ware had seen that Lady Rebecca's costume suited her dark skin and hair.

Before coming to the presence chamber there were many halls and anterooms filled with courtiers and ladies, whose curious glances might have dismayed any woman who had not grown accustomed to a life at court; but Pocahontas passed on unconscious of them all.

In the large hall which they entered last, hung with rich tapestries and furnished with dark oaken chairs and settles covered with royal purple velvet, a few pages and the Queen's ladies alone kept her company. As Pocahontas and Lady De La Ware advanced, the Queen motioned every one else to withdraw to the farther end of the chamber. She curtsied in return to the obeisances made by Pocahontas and her sponsor, but did not stretch forth her hand to be kissed as she would have done had she not considered this stranger before her as a princess of royal blood.

"I thank thee for coming," she said graciously. "I have much desired to see thee. Captain Smith was right when he reminded me of what our people owe thee, he most of all."

"He was dear to my people also," answered Pocahontas.

"Hath Your Majesty heard how men speak of Captain Smith in the Colony?" asked Lady De La Ware. "My brother who is still at Jamestown wrote me that one of the colonists regretting the great Captain's departure said of him:

"What shall I say of him but thus we lost him, that in all his proceedings made justice his first guide, and experience his second, ever hating baseness, sloth, pride, and indignity more than any dangers; that never allowed more for himself than his soldiers with him; that upon no danger would send them where he would not lead them himself; that would never see us want what he either had or could get us; that would rather want than borrow, or starve than not pay; that loved action more than words, and hated falsehood and covetousness more than death; whose adventures were our lives, and whose loss our death.'"

"Tell me of thy long voyage," then questioned her majesty; and seating herself, made room for Pocahontas beside her, while Lady De La Ware moved off to talk with one of the ladies. "I do not see how men, and more especially women, dare trust themselves for so long on the sea. When I had been married by proxy to my lord, the King, I tried to go by ship from Denmark to Scotland, but the tempests were so fierce that we had to put in to Norway, scarce saving our lives; and thither came my gracious lord, against the prayers of his councillors who tried to dissuade him from venturing his precious safety in winter storms. Oh! I have no love of the sea."

"I did not fear it," said Pocahontas, "but I thought it would never end. Had I been alone, though, without my husband and my child"—then, not knowing that court etiquette did not sanction the changing the subject of conversation by any one but the sovereign, she asked: "And how many children hast thou?"

Queen Anne was pleased with her naturalness and told her of her son and daughter and of the wonderful Prince Henry whom she had lost.

While they sat talking about their children as quietly as two plain housewives, there was a commotion at the end of the hall. The pages seemed very excited and uncertain what they ought to do. However, they could not have prevented if they would, and into the hall, clad in his long mantle, moccasins and with his headdress of feathers, strode Uttamatomakkin. Pocahontas, looking up, saw that he was examining eagerly all the furnishings of the hall and then his gaze was bent upon the Queen.

"Is yon the squaw of the great white werowance?" he asked, "and is this their ceremonial lodge? I have already beheld the King and he is a weak little creature whom any child at Werowocomoco could knock down."

"Who is he, and what doth he say?" asked the Queen, who was delighted at his strange appearance.

"It is one of my people, Madame, and he wishes to know if thou art indeed the Queen that he may tell of thee when he returneth to Wingandacoa." She did not think it wise to repeat the rest of his remarks.

The Queen, whose curiosity was great in regard to this strange race from overseas of whom she had heard so many tales, beckoned to Uttamatomakkin to come closer. The Indian walked stolidly to the dais where she stood.

"What is this mantle made of?" asked the sovereign, taking up an end of the painted and embroidered deerskin robe and rubbing it critically between her fingers.

Uttamatomakkin, thinking this was the English form of salutation and not intending to be outdone in politeness, caught hold of Queen Anne's velvet skirt, and to the accompaniment of little shrieks of dismay from the ladies-in-waiting, fingered it in the same manner.

"That must thou not do," remonstrated Pocahontas, trying not to laugh; but Uttamatomakkin grunted:

"Why should I not do what a squaw doth?"

The Queen recovered her equanimity and in sign of her good will unfastened a golden brooch and pinned it on the Indian's broad shoulder. Then the chief broke off from his girdle a string of wampum, and before any one realized what he intended doing, he had fastened it to a pearl pin on the Queen's bodice.

"I see I cannot get the better of him. Lady Rebecca," laughed her Majesty; "but ask him what he doth with yon long stick."

The pages, whose interest in this savage overcame for the moment their habit of etiquette, had approached little by little towards the end of the hall where he stood. They watched eagerly and with a certain dread of the unknown while he took from his pouch a white stick and his knife from his girdle. The stick, they saw, was covered with tiny nicks; and the Indian, looking from one person to another, made many more marks on the wand.

"What is it thou dost, Uttamatomakkin?" asked Pocahontas.

"The werowance, thy father, told me to mark and let him know when I return how many white folk there were in this land. I made a cut for each one I counted at first, but my stick is all but covered now and the Powhatan will not know how the palefaces swarm here like bees in a hollow tree."

Pocahontas repeated to the Queen what he had said, and her Majesty was greatly amused.

"But thou dost not plan to return to Virginia for a long; time yet?" she asked.

"Much I like thy land, and its pleasant folk," answered Pocahontas as she rose to go. "But the time draweth near for us to set sail westward again. Farewell."

Then, accompanied by Lady De La Ware and Uttamatomakkin, she left the audience chamber.

"The Lady Rebecca," said the Queen to her ladies when the curtains had fallen behind Pocahontas, "is one of the gentlest ladies England hath ever welcomed."

THE END